Whoa, whoa, startled team!
The big wheel churning deep within
The roaring mill that rocks the beam
Is more of song than din.
Rein them to the chute, young man;
Spill the golden grain
Into the maw of the sifting pan.
Be more of man than swain.
You come with grist, as the miller knows.
Look away from flume and strem
Where bird song is and lichen grows
In less of earth than dream.
The girl will wait in the bowered door
To wave you as you pass,
Lumbering to the threshing floor.
She's less of maid than lass.
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